


Angels

by lostmemoria



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, but after Muted, excessive use of tags bleh, i always thought it'd be interesting that if Lydia's paintings maybe explored more into her powers, i guess?, in the art room, in the middle of the night, lydia is seventeen, some canon divergence, some innocent kissing, this is something like that, this is suppose to take place before 4x09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 16:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3074477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostmemoria/pseuds/lostmemoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And it feels like he’s the canvas, while her lips are the paintbrush, and all he wants is to be covered by the stain of her lips, in every color, in every hue.</p><p>Or: Lydia and Jordan alone in the art room in the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea in my mind for a while, finally got the chance to write it :D
> 
> also, title inspiration from this song [(x)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z9HlQTvF4uw) I CAN'T STOP LISTENING TO IT OKAY

He doesn’t like going to the high school.  
  
And after all the strange things that have happened there, Jordan _especially_ isn’t so excited about going there in the middle of the night. But someone called the station with  a strange noise complaint, something about someone hearing music coming from the art room, which didn’t make much sense to him because who could possibly be here at such an ungodly hour? He decides better than to question it though, since there’s been stranger things happening in this town, like how the Sheriff has his own expert on teenage cannibals apparently.  
  
Sighing, Jordan steps out of his cruiser and makes his way towards the school. He doesn’t go through the front doors because they’re locked, but he’s overheard from the Sheriff’s son that there’s an entrance around the back near the field that someone always forgets to lock up. When he enters, he immediately hears the music drifting through the hallway, coming from a classroom situated in the corner of the hall, where a dim light spills through the open crack. Jordan decides that whoever it is, it’s most likely not some psychopathic killer or cannibal in this case, since he’s pretty sure that neither of those two would be playing music—is that Beethoven?—so he places his gun back into his holster and carefully makes his way towards the door.  
  
When he enters, he expects to see some drunk band kids or even a pair of hormonal teens thinking that they’re being adventurous by doing it in a classroom in an empty school in the middle of the night. However, what Jordan _doesn’t_ expect  to see is a certain strawberry blonde who he keeps finding at crime scenes where people have been brutally murdered and who he highly suspects is psychic, especially after she found a locker full of bodies at Walcott House, when he was sure that there weren’t any bodies left in the residence.  
  
Lydia doesn’t notice him right away, because her attention is invested in whatever she’s painting, and Jordan takes that moment to let his eyes glance over her. Her bright red hair is pulled aside in some elaborate braid, a few strands falling astray and framing her face softly. Her dark red lips are pursed, hazel eyes that he didn’t know were hazel until he saw them close up when they were in the game locker at Walcott House are narrowed in concentration, and it’s only when his eyes glance over the equally red dress that she’s wearing does Lydia finally notice him.  
  
“ _Deputy_ ,” She starts, getting his attention, her head tilting to the side as their gazes lock, “my eyes are up here, you know.”  
  
Jordan blushes. He’s decided that he really needs to stop staring at her so much, but as he steps towards her, he realizes that he can’t take his eyes off her. It surprises him, how much a seventeen year old girl can interest him so much. Ever since he met her at Walcott House, he knew there was no denying that she was a beautiful young woman with a rather strange reputation, but after actually speaking with her, he now knows that she's much more than that.      
  
He manages to force himself to tear his gaze away though, even if  just momentarily so that he can glance around the room as he clears his throat. “You seem to have a habit of being in unusual places. First a crime scene, and now an empty school in the middle of the night?” He cocks an eyebrow at her, curiously.  
  
Lydia merely rolls her eyes, unphased. “And _you_ seem much too interested in things that aren’t your business.” He catches the bite in her voice.  
  
“Well, I don’t know, noise complaints seem like very much my business if you ask me,” Jordan replies, flashing her a small smile that she doesn’t return.  
  
“What? Are you gonna arrest me now?” She snorts.  
  
He frowns. “No, of course not,” he says as he moves closer to her. “I mean, if being alone helps with the psychic thing...I can leave, it’s not a problem. But I’ll have to ask you to lower the Beethoven a little.”  
  
“You act like I want to be _alone_ ,” she says bitterly, looking at him now, “but I don’t. I don’t want to be alone. But it’s not like I have much of a choice? When you lose everyone—” She pauses, her fingers readjusting the grip on the brush, a somewhat painful expression crossing her face before she continues, “...I don’t want to be alone. Simple as that. _And for your information_ , it’s not Beethoven. It’s Mozart.” The last part comes out as an annoyed huff from her before she turns away once more.  
  
He doesn’t say anything, just watches her, watches as even though she goes back to her painting, he can see the distant and hollow look in her eyes. And despite only being around her a few times, Jordan feels like he can read her well by now. Almost too well. It makes him wish he can say something, do something to comfort her, because she’s _so_ young and even though he doesn’t know what she’s been through, he knows she’s probably been through a lot for her age. “You...don’t have to be alone,” he starts slowly, calmly, making her glance up at him again. “I mean, if there’s someone you need to talk to, to reach out to...I’m here. I’ll listen. I...know how it feels to lose everyone.” At those words, he finds himself thinking back to when he was stationed in Afghanistan and about all the people he lost. He knows that feeling, that feeling of loss heavy on your heart.  
  
After he says that, Lydia stares at him for a minute, their gazes locking once more, and he wonders if he said too much, or if he crossed the line too far. But then he sees the corner of her lips curl upward into a small genuine smile, and the sight of it makes something in Jordan warm up. “Thanks,” she says softly. “It would be nice to have someone to talk to.”  
  
Jordan nods, “Whenever you need a friend, I’m all ears.”  
  
Her smile grows wider, smug almost. “So, we’re _friends_ now?”  
  
He turns pink and swallows a little. “Only if you want.”  
  
Lydia laughs at this, and it’s a pleasant laugh, one that echoes through the room and makes him wish he can hear it more often. “Well,” she starts up again, amusingly, as she gestures towards the seat right across from her, “then why don’t you be a _good friend_ and sit down for me so I can paint you?”  
  
Jordan’s eyes widen at her proposal. “Me? You want to paint me? Why?” His tone comes off as more surprised than anything else.  
  
She shrugs. “Why not?” Then her eyes glance over him, sizing him up, a gesture that reminds him back to when she did it at the Walcotts and he thought he would be used to it by now, but it still manages to make him blush. She continues, “You’re tall, handsome, have pretty eyes, and I’m _not_ the type of person to just throw compliments around.”  
  
Her comment makes him even more flustered, and by the way she arches a perfect red brow at him, he figures that it’s probably because his face is flushed a deep red by now. “I wouldn’t dare doubt it,” he manages to muster out, and deciding that since he’s already off his shift in about ten minutes, it wouldn’t hurt to stay, and also because he doesn’t think it’s a good idea to just leave her after she told him she rather not be alone. So, as if to answer her question, he makes his way towards the seat across from her and sits down. As soon as he sits however, he can’t help but feel a bit self conscious. Sure, Jordan’s quite used to having women check him out, but this was different, this was _Lydia Martin_ , and he would be lying to himself if he said he isn’t infatuated with her. Not that it really matters, because he constantly has to remind himself that she’s only seventeen, and that it doesn’t matter if she’s turning eighteen soon, because he’ll always be seven years older than her. And there’s no way he deserves her.  
  
But no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to stop his feelings for her.  
  
“Loosen up a little,” he hears her say suddenly, pulling him out of his thoughts. She glances at him from behind the easel and smiles teasingly, “take off your jacket.”  
  
Jordan does as he’s told without question, letting his officer jacket fall to the floor. And as soon as he does, he watches her eyes roam down his arm muscles for a moment, as if mentally approving of them, before she finally picks up her paintbrush, turns to a clean page, and then starts her work.  
  
In the beginning, Lydia’s gaze switches back and forth between him and her canvas, and sometimes she’ll stop momentarily, only to get up and walk over to him, letting her hands gently touch his face or the curve of his neck and he doesn’t question it, automatically assuming that it’s part of her artistic process, not that he minds her touching him, in fact he kind of likes it. He likes the way her soft but cool hands feel against his burning skin, a fluttering tickle spreading over his body, and he tries to ignore it, but it’s hard when he finds himself leaning into her touch, and then longing for it when she ends up pulling away faster than he would admit, and return back to her seat.  
  
As time passes, Lydia stops getting up and stops looking over at him as well, and Jordan notices it’s because she’s fallen into a sort of trance as he watches the way her hand moves in a rhythm across the canvas, while her gaze is wide and unmoving, her lips pressed into a soft line, making him curious to see the painting now. But he doesn’t dare interrupt her while she’s working, letting his curiosity be set aside as he lets his gaze linger on her longer than needed, because she looks _so_ beautiful like that. And if he could, he would fall in love with her right then and there.  
  
But he can’t.  
  
“Parrish? Are you okay?”  
  
He doesn’t realize how absorbed in his thoughts he is until he looks up and finds Lydia standing in front of him, slight concern in her expression. “Yeah, I’m okay, just lost in my thoughts,” he tells her with a reassuring smile, because he doesn’t like to see her worried, even if that worry is directed towards him.  
  
She nods. “Do you want to see the painting?”  
  
His eyes widen, surprised because did that much time really pass? But nevertheless, he wants to see it. “Yeah, of course.” He shrugs his jacket on again and follows her so that they’re standing in front of the large easel, and for a minute he didn’t know what to expect, but then he sees the burst of colors, the reds and the oranges, and yet there’s still a certain softness to the angles, to the lines, to _him_. But the thing that interests him the most is the way she perceived him, because even though it’s him, it’s a different version of him, because in this painting, he has _wings._ Enormous feather-like things sprouting from his back as he rises from the reds and the oranges of flames surrounding him, like a resurrection, and it comes off as lively, as angelic, as if that’s what he was, an _angel._  
  
“I drew what I saw,” Lydia says softly, as if reading his mind, and he thinks she _must_ be psychic.  
  
“I love it.” Jordan looks at her, smiling, a look of awe in his eyes.  
  
She blinks at him and this time she’s the one surprised. “You do?”  
  
His smile turns wider. “Yeah, I do. Is it okay if I keep it?” He turns back to the painting and reaches a hand out to just _touch_ it, to feel the texture of it underneath his fingertips, but before he can, Lydia stops him by grabbing his hand.  
  
“You have to wait for it to _dry_ ,” she says, not angry, but giving him a pointed look. But then her face softens, and he notices that she doesn’t let go of his hand instantly, letting their fingers linger. She smiles, “But yes, you can keep it.”  
  
Jordan gives her an embarrassed smile, but doesn’t let go of her hand either, instead letting his fingers slowly intertwine with hers, and she lets him. “Sorry,” he says, and then out of the blue, “Do you believe in angels?” He lowers his gaze, looking at the way their hands are joined.  
  
Lydia follows his gaze momentarily before looking back up at him, eyes twinkling. “Do you?”

He chuckles. “I said I had an open mind, remember?”  
  
She rolls her eyes, and then lets go of his hand, turning to clean off her paintbrushes. “You and your open mind,” she murmurs, shaking her head, amused. “I mean...I’d like to say I do.” Her voice trails off as her eyes find his again while she wipes off a red tipped brush with a wet cloth. “I like to think that we all have someone watching over us, someone to protect us and give us hope, and whoever that person is, they’re kind of like our guardian angels. So yes, I guess I do believe in them. II mean, why not? It’s not so far-fetched considering all the crazy things that happen in this town.” She grabs the rest of the dirty paint brushes and walks over to the sink, Jordan following behind her.  
  
“True,” he replies, his tone turning slightly teasing, “I mean...first we have cannibals and then we have cannibal experts, and now _psychics_ …”  
  
“I am not psychic!” Lydia retorts humorously, turning around so quickly that one of the paint covered brushes in her hand ends up splattering blue paint all over Jordan’s face. She gasps, bringing her free hand up to cover her mouth, probably in disbelief that she did that. But instead of apologizing, she laughs. Hard.  
  
Jordan flinches slightly at the contact of the paint all over his face, but mostly his mouth, and when he hears Lydia laughing, he can’t help but smile as well. “Not funny,” he says, reaching for one of the wet cloths.  
  
“Here—let me,” Lydia manages to say in between her giggling as she takes one of the cloths and leans closer to him.  
  
Jordan feels his breath hitch as Lydia presses up against him, and the feeling of their bodies touching sends a spark buzzing through him, making him wonder if she can feel the way his body lights up like electricity in her wake. She carefully wipes the blue paint away from his lips and while she does, he can’t help but stare at her own red lips. She seems to notice that, where his gaze is directed, because she smiles and leans even closer to him.  
  
It makes him freeze. “What are you—”  
  
“Red and blue,” she says, interrupting him, a certain playful look in her eyes. “Mix them together and they make purple.” Her lips are so close to his, that all Jordan has to do is lean in and close the distance. He feels her warm breath against the corner of his mouth as she whispers, “I like purple.”  
  
That’s when, forgetting everything else, he finally kisses her.  
  
And she kisses him back, arms wrapping around his neck, and it’s soft and slow, the way their lips brush together, the leftover blue paint on his mouth mixing with the red of her lips. And it feels like he’s the canvas, while her lips are the paintbrush, and all he wants is to be covered by the stain of her lips, in every color, in every hue.  
  
That’s when he realizes that this is more than just infatuation.  


 **

  
  
They’re holding hands again when he walks her to her car.  
  
“Why...an angel?” He suddenly asks when they stop in front of her car door.  
  
Lydia lets go of his hand and as soon as she does, he misses her touch already. But then she smiles, and he forgets about it. “I don’t know why, but when I look at you, I see hope,” she says softly and then laughs, “You like _shine_ in it. And I like that. It makes me feel like maybe there still is some.”  
  
He steps towards her, one of his hands reaching out to gently touch her arm. “That’s because there’s always hope. It might seem bleak at some times, but it’s there.”  
  
Her smile doesn’t falter. “You’re a good guy, Parrish,” she says warmly, and it’s something Jordan’s heard so many times from other people, but hearing it from her, it feels like it actually means something. “And I don’t meet a lot of good guys.”  
  
He doesn’t know how to reply to that, and maybe it’s because there isn’t a way to. So instead he says, a bit shyly, “You know, you can call me Jordan, if you like.”  
  
Lydia smiles at his shyness as she steps closer to him before standing on her tip toes and pressing a kiss on his cheek. Her lips linger for a moment, her eyelids fluttering, before pulling away and looking up at him. “Jordan,” she says, as if testing it out, and he likes the way it sounds on her tongue. “I’d very much like that.”  
  
He smiles, and thinks, if there are angels, they would know how badly he’s fallen in love with her.

**Author's Note:**

> and ofc, happy new year!! :) hopefully all your dreams and wishes come true this year <3


End file.
